


Homeward Bound

by eurydice (pommeideas)



Category: Frozen (Disney Movies)
Genre: Elsa is a goddess and Honeymaren is her most fervent worshipper, Established Relationship, F/F, Fluff, Lesbian Elsa (Disney), Realistic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:22:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21545221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pommeideas/pseuds/eurydice
Summary: Outside the walls of Arendelle, there are whispers about a goddess riding a fantastic steed on the waters of the fjord, the pale gold flame of her hair dancing in the wind with the trail of her gown, sparkling like ice in the morning sun.Honeymaren knows this goddess.
Relationships: Elsa/Honeymaren (Disney)
Comments: 29
Kudos: 575





	Homeward Bound

**Author's Note:**

> I needed to write down the thoughts I fell asleep to after seeing Frozen II yesterday... I'm usually not into shipping characters from western animation, but this Elsa was... something else (and I'm gay).

_Come, my darling, homeward bound_  
_When all is lost, then all is found_

Outside the walls of Arendelle, there are whispers about a goddess riding a fantastic steed on the waters of the fjord, the pale gold flame of her hair dancing in the wind with the trail of her gown, sparkling like ice in the morning sun. She appears once every few days, sometimes racing South, sometimes racing North, always carrying with her the shimmering air of something enchanted. The people of the neighboring villages and towns have started erecting statues in her honor, a crude but endearing attempt at capturing in a moment of stillness that fiery maiden whose face and name remain unknown.

Honeymaren knows this goddess; she knows the smell of fresh air and sea mist that surround her when she comes back home with the sun. She knows the way water obeys her, wind heeds her call, fire curls in her palm, and the way earth welcomes her – like Honeymaren does, ever-patient and steady, when Elsa steps down from the Water Spirit after a long day away.

Honeymaren’s steps quicken despite the burn in her thighs from herding all night and she envelopes Elsa in a tight embrace, bringing with her the scent of leather and animals and sweat as her rough hands grab fistfuls of those ice-woven clothes.

“I missed you,” she says, ignoring the cold burn of her cheek where it’s pressed against Elsa’s shoulder.

Elsa laughs softly and pulls back, reaching for Honeymaren’s hands.

“I was only gone for a day, sweet Honey.”

Honeymaren knows this. She is already so lucky to hold her close, to braid her hair, to sleep by her side. Luckier than Queen Anna, who had to bravely let go of her sister and step into the world on her own, without her guiding light. Honeymaren thinks that if she had such a sister as Elsa, she would never let her go, but Elsa is not her sister, and one cannot bind a Spirit.

Honeymaren knows how lucky she is and yet, when Elsa is away, she can’t help but miss the feel of her soft cold hand in hers, or the sight of the lively flush high on her cheeks when she comes back from one of her rides.

“Come.” Gently, she tugs Elsa towards their shared tent. “I have something to show you.”

Elsa follows, calm as always, until Honeymaren kneels beside her chest of belongings and takes out a deep blue shawl, embroidered with white patterns of snowflakes and the symbols of the five Spirits.

“What…” Elsa begins, voice unusually small, but Honeymaren is quick to stand up and saves her the trouble of asking.

“I did it myself.” She can’t quite keep the proudness out of her voice. “Everyday you were gone, I worked. I dyed the wool with blueberries, I spun it, I weaved it.”

Elsa seems to be at a loss for words, her throat working a few times before she reaches out and runs a hand on the simple yet delicate embroidery, not quite daring to take the shawl from Honeymaren’s hands.

“Thank you,” she says at last, and her words are heavy with a tearful joy.

Honeymaren only smiles and drapes the shawl across Elsa’s shoulders, uncaring that the ice crystals of her dress will dampen it.

“It is only a little gift compared to what you did for us.”

This time Elsa smiles without a trace of sadness and inclines her head gracefully, before stepping away and bending down to retrieve some clothes from her own trunk.

“Will you wait for me outside?”

Honeymaren only nods, heart light like a feather, so light it could float away. Outside the tent, the tribe is waking up, children already running around madly despite the early hour. The days are shortening, the winter sun setting a bit earlier every day, and Honeymaren can’t help but feel a twinge of regret every time the sky changes color. How fortunate are these children, to know from such a young age what the sky looks like, wide and blue beyond words, far above their heads?

Before Elsa came, Honeymaren had wondered about the sky, egged on by her dreamer of a brother. Their grandmother once told them it was blue, so when they were little they looked for the color of the sky everywhere in the forest, bringing back too-dark berries, too-pale shards of ice, and everytime grandmother would shake her head and sigh, as if frustrated by her own powerlessness. If she could have dispelled the mist by giving her life, she would have, if only so that her grandchildren could lay eyes upon such beauty. In the end, she couldn’t see the sky again before she died.

When the mist finally lifted, Honeymaren’s first thought was that she had seen that color before. It was the color of Elsa’s eyes.

When Elsa comes to stand beside her, gaze travelling over the camp with a small relaxed smile on her face, she is wearing a dress of reindeer hide and strong, sturdy leather boots, her hair gathered in a tight practical braid. She catches Honeymaren’s eyes and her smile both widens and softens, and Honeymaren reaches for her hand once more. She is lucky, she thinks again, to known the feeling of that ice-cold body growing warm under her touch, lucky to know how those sky-blue eyes look like naked, without the mauve that is suitable for a queen but not for a forest Spirit, and lucky to know, above all things, what naked love looks like in a goddess’s eyes.


End file.
